


The Den of So-Called Iniquity

by Snegurochka



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-04
Updated: 2010-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snegurochka/pseuds/Snegurochka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Potter is watching you, as usual, his fingers tight around his glass. You know what will happen if you swallow that potion in such close proximity to Potter – the same thing that has happened every time you've done it so far.</p><p>4,000 words. NC-17. Drug use. Written for serpentinelion's Summer Kink Fest, for the prompt: <i>They only fuck when they get high together</i>. June 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Den of So-Called Iniquity

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to marguerite_26 for the beta work.

It's happened again.

You are still panting from it, your arms still wrapped tightly around his neck and your fingers only now releasing their death grip on the back of his head. You let yourself drag your teeth across his shoulder as you loosen your jaw and with it the urge – apparently – to bite down at your moment of climax. Your thighs ache where they straddle him, where they have been working up and down in a slow cadence that turned bestial and frantic somewhere along the way.

His cock is still inside you.

You feel it pulsing, a deep rhythm that sends renewed shivers through your body. A whisper of wetness seeps over your balls where they brush his stomach, and you think you might have sprained your toe from curling it awkwardly around the arm of the goddamned chair. Why are you fucking in a chair, anyway? You don't remember that part. You never remember how you get here, only how it ends. It's like the bloody potion can tell when he's finished pounding your arse raw and you've finished spurting all over his stomach (or the sheets, or his face; it varies) and decides it would be all right to gently fade away –

Leaving you to pick up the pieces and extract yourself yet again, horrible awkwardness and all.

"I– Christ." He's always even worse than you at this moment. "Malfoy, wait. Don't fucking run off this time. We've got to talk about this."

Hardly. You push yourself away from him, wincing a little at the stickiness when your chests peel apart, trying to hold your head up even as his come is trickling down your thigh. You climb off his lap and straighten, turning to search for your clothes.

He doesn't try calling your name again; he's not that desperate. But you can feel his eyes on you as you pull your trousers on and button your shirt. Where the fuck is your belt? You stamp your feet into your shoes and run a hand through your hair. Your body is damp and your mouth tastes like him. Sod the belt. You spare one last glance at him – still naked in that chair but now bent over, elbows on his knees and eyes on the floor – and then try not to flinch at the finite sound of the door you've slammed closed behind you.

*

The potion is thick. It doesn't make you gag, but the consistency falls somewhere between broth and sludge and depending on the state of your stomach that day, it can be a chore to get it down. But oh, is it ever worth it when you do. The world is brighter, food tastes better, sex is a miracle. Yes, yes, all of that. But that's not why you take it.

You take it because _he_ takes it.

The Chosen One, the war hero, Dumbledore's man through and through – you've heard it all. You know every bit of it is slightly exaggerated, if not complete bunk. He has a perpetual halo over his head, sure, but you've seen him in the shadowed times, with his wand drawn and spells that could kill tumbling from his lips. You've seen him obsess, and hunt, and hate. But you've also seen him in jeans and a t-shirt, the hem unravelling and the emblem of a Muggle rock band peeling off his chest. You've seen him barefoot. You've seen him with his glasses off.

You've seen him sprawled on the thick carpet in front of the fire at the Den, propped up on one elbow and nursing his fourth shot-glass of that potion as the world fades in and out.

You've seen him naked. You've seen him flat on his back with his cock pushing inside you as you slither over top of him, gasping but trying to hide it.

No, back up.

"Oh, this is _rich_." That's what you said to him the first time you saw him at the Den, that hole in the ground in Cardiff that managed to exude both the old charm of an opium salon and the modern filth of a heroin lair. You went with Blaise once for a laugh, and when he declared it a workers' hovel, you never told him you came back every week after that. The potion was cheap, the staff didn't ask questions, and no one you knew would ever be caught dead there. It was perfect.

Or, it _was_, until Potter showed up.

Potter didn't say anything that night, though; he only gave you a pressing look over the rim of his glass before downing the rest of his dose. Then he leaned back against the carpet and closed his eyes. The hem of his t-shirt hitched up and his jeans stretched down, and you raked your eyes over the dark hair on his lower abdomen. Your own hit had already kicked in, and that familiar haze flitted across your mind, making you forget that the world as you had always known it was gone.

You walked over to him and dropped to your knees, swinging one leg over him and trapping him on the floor. He opened his eyes, and a lazy smile overtook his features.

"'bout time, Malfoy," he breathed, reaching up to cup the back of your neck and guide your lips down to his. This sort of thing wasn't really encouraged in the main rooms of the Den, but all your clothes were on and no one was watching, so before you could think twice about what the fuck you were doing, you began rubbing against him through your trousers, your hips grinding and your back arching and his mouth hot against yours. You left that night a sticky, sated mess, your mind whirling and your body desperate for another dose.

*

You shouldn't go back every week. You should find yourself a real date, or at least just stay home and wank to a fantasy of someone – _anyone_ – other than Potter. But home is awful. Mother has taken up knitting and Father has taken up drinking, and they alternate between not caring one whit and caring entirely too much that you are nineteen and hopeless and didn't finish school and have no idea what to do with yourself now that there isn't a war to fight.

You shouldn't go back every week, but you know why you do.

Tonight, you spend a moment swirling the potion in your mouth. You've already spotted Potter across the room. He is watching you, as usual, his fingers tight around his glass. You know what will happen if you swallow that potion in such close proximity to Potter – the same thing that has happened every time you've done it so far.

_Potter_ happens.

It's all sweat and come and tongues and teeth from the moment the potion takes hold. It's not _Imperius_, not like that; you can tell that much. You're not sure why or how or what the fuck either of you are thinking, but the damn potion is like a Potter-specific aphrodisiac. You grimace, swirl it around your tongue one more time, and then swallow. You close your eyes until the haze sets in, and suddenly your feet are too light for the ground and your shoulders don't carry a thousand weights. You open your eyes and find Potter still watching you.

He is slouched down on a large sofa, legs wide, the groin of his jeans tight and his fingers already slowly unbuttoning his shirt. You waver slightly on your feet, but they carry you over anyway. You reach him and sink down, your lips catching on the roughness of his unshaven jaw and your teeth skimming patterns over his neck.

That's all you remember. When you come to your senses again, you will be somewhere else, naked, and climbing off him, your arse sore and regret crashing over you.

*

You're not sure when you first consider the idea, but it must be around the time you come to and find yourself clawing at the walls of Potter's shower, water cascading over you and Potter rising from between your legs to wipe his mouth and press his forehead against the tiles. His prick is still hard, you notice, but he's turned away from you as if resigned.

"Off you go," he murmurs, drops of water sliding down his neck. He still won't look at you. When you don't move, he glances over. "That's what you want, isn't it? Get high, fuck and leave. So go on, then."

There is no logical reason for it, but for once, you don't completely panic. Maybe you've finally got used to emerging from the haze to see that you're in post-orgasmic bliss with Harry sodding Potter. Maybe it's the sight of his bulging prick that does it. Who knows? Whatever the reason, you reach down and curl your hand around his prick before you can think too much about it, and _oh_, okay, that's the right decision, it seems, because Potter's eyes fall closed and he leans into your touch and he makes the most delicious little noises as he thrusts into your fist.

He grabs your shoulder when he comes, grabs and digs his fingers in and pulls you close and groans low in his throat, whispering a slow, lingering, "_Fuck_, Malfoy," in your ear. You slow your hand but don't quite stop, and he continues shuddering against the tiles as the water cools, your fingers sliding his come down his balls and between his legs.

You remember doing all of that. You remember how it feels. And you decide to try something, just once, to recapture that feeling.

*

The spell is a bit tricky, but after practicing with glasses of pumpkin juice (and, okay, the occasional mouthful of firewhisky from Father's cupboard), you think you've got it. Just a variant of _Aguamenti_, really, and if you can't manage that one at your age, no amount of extra schooling would have helped you anyway.

You are a bit nervous when you get to the Den that night. But fuck it, what have you got to be nervous about? Potter will still be on the junk; he won't remember whatever happens. It's a foolproof experiment. Just to see what it's like.

You put your money on the counter and take the shot glasses. Potter is already here, already lazing on the sofa, already with three empty glasses on the table beside him and one in his hand. He is watching, as usual.

Slipping your wand up your sleeve, you take a mouthful and swirl it around. Your eyes flutter closed as you concentrate, channelling your energy down your arm and through your wand. You _think_ the spell, hard, and a second later, the thick potion turns to water in your mouth. You swish it against your cheek one more time to make sure, and then you swallow it down. Excitement swirls in your stomach. You've half a mind to berate yourself, though, because really, what do you think you're going to do now – actually approach Harry Potter in a seedy basement drug lair and _pretend_ you're on a potion that regularly ensures you end up fucking him?

Your hand weakens around the glass, and you're not sure you can go through with this if you're sober.

But all it takes is one more glance across the club, your gaze landing on Potter reclined against the sofa cushions as usual, his hair damp with the heat of the place and tousled where it meets the sofa. His cheeks are flushed, his lips are parted and his fingers move restlessly over the glass. He is watching you.

Well. Greater men might be able to resist, but you are not one of them.

You do what you usually do, striding over to him and climbing on top of him. You always remember this part, like you're watching yourself through the haze of the potion. You straddle his lap with barely a hello, and immediately he drops his glass over the side of the sofa. His hands move over your back and arse, anchoring you and drawing you closer. He's already pushing up against you, his breath hot at your neck, and it might be mad but it feels bloody brilliant. You can't remember why you haven't thought of doing this before – the version with all your senses intact, that is.

"Come on," he murmurs. "Can't wait."

You only nod, your forehead bumping his as you lean in to kiss him.

With a groan of regret, he pushes you back and makes you stand up, grasping your arm and leading you to a side door. Once you're outside, he pulls you close again and Apparates you to his flat. Ah. So that's how you always get there. You've barely reoriented yourself to your new surroundings before he is crowding you up against his bedroom wall, his fingers in your hair and his mouth ravaging yours.

"Malfoy," he breathes. "God, your mouth..."

Merlin, he can kiss. All at once your anthropology experiment flies right out the window and you're kissing him back, just as desperate and frantic. He unbuttons your shirt and pushes it off your shoulders, using it to trap your arms momentarily behind your back as he leans in to bite at your collarbone. You take in a slow, shuddering breath and push your fingers under his t-shirt. "Off," is all you can mutter. He grins at you, letting your shirt fall to the floor and then taking care of his own. You smooth your palms up his chest and take a moment just to _look_, because you haven't got to do that before and it seems like something you owe yourself.

You must pause a bit too long, though, because he becomes uncertain. "All right?" he whispers, avoiding your eyes, and fuck, you're not supposed to be pausing and _thinking_, you're supposed to be high as a Quaffle and acting on pure impulse. You let your eyes go heavy and your tongue dart out to wet your lips.

"Yeah," you drawl, fearful for a moment about what kind of ridiculous things you must say to him in the heat of the moment. Do you usually beg for his cock? Offer to perform any number of acts on him? Run around his flat naked and laughing? You shudder at the thought, but you seem to have reassured him because he takes charge now, moving you towards the bed and letting you fall back on it. You prop yourself up on your elbows and regard him as he pushes his jeans down and steps out of his pants. "Eager, Potter?"

He glances up. For a moment, something flits across his face, but then he crawls on the bed after you, tugging at your trousers, and it disappears. "No," he says, his voice low and lazy, "but that junk makes me hard, same as you." He throws your trousers and pants to the floor and moves over you. "So we might as well fuck, right?"

Ah. Right. You tamp down on a flare of disappointment. "Just a convenient place to park your cock?" You try to lift your chin as though you have standards, but his mouth is moving over your neck and it's hard to feign imperiousness right now.

"Very convenient." His voice is low at your ear.

You moan, closing your eyes. "I don't even _like_ you," you say before you can stop yourself. He pulls away, and you open your eyes to see him gazing down at you, his eyes a little bit too lucid.

"I know," he murmurs, but then he grins. "I don't much like you either. But that's when you've got your clothes on and you're being a royal prat." He slides his hands around your ribcage and down to your hips, nudging you to turn over, and _Merlin_, you do, without even a token protest. "When I've got you like this, on the other hand..." He straddles your thighs as you stretch out on your stomach, pulling a pillow closer because you're already thinking there is no _way_ you won't need it to muffle your shouts in another few minutes. He leans over you and his lips move up your back. "I like you just fine."

"Potter–"

"Can you shut up for five minutes?" he growls, and you snap your mouth closed, horrified at the jolt of energy your prick just absorbed at the words. So this is what's kept your body coming back for more, week after week. You close your eyes.

He moves down your body, his hands mapping out where his mouth will follow, and Merlin, it occurs to you that he _knows_ your body. He is touching all the right places, all the places that have always made you moan – that juncture where your neck meets your shoulder, that dip in the small of your back, that place, oh, _Merlin_, where your thigh becomes the curve of your arse. You are already close to a mess when he finally slides his fingers over your arse, pushes his thumbs in your cleft, and guides you up to your knees. The edges of his thumbnails flicker at your rim, and you bury your head in the pillow, pushing back against him. He laughs, mouthing a bite at your left cheek. Then his tongue is on you, just barely, following the path of his thumbs as they circle your rim.

You let out a deep, shuddering breath and wonder why the fuck the pair of you think you need to be high before you're allowed to have this.

Your lucidity is suddenly a curse. Now that you know what this is like, now that your body knows what that tongue can do and how Potter can make you feel, how are you meant to go back to pretending it doesn't mean anything, that it's just something casual you two do to escape?

You were never supposed to know what this is like.

"_Potter_."

"Yeah?"

But you only gasp out a breath across the pillow, unable to ask him either to give you more and never let go, or stop at once and never look at you again.

Something in that gasp must spur him on, because he stops teasing, stops being gentle, stops the soft caresses to intimate parts of your body. He breathes the words of a spell and slides oiled fingers inside you. The head of his cock is thick and smooth when it follows a moment later, the slow push of it burning you from the inside out. You can't help it. You choke out another groan and fall to the bed, your stomach tight against the sheets and your fingers clenched in the pillow.

He rides you deep and slow, his hips rolling and his thrusts a bit shallower in this position, with you flat on your stomach trying not to moan his name. He takes his time, pausing when he's inside you to lap his tongue at your shoulder blade or run his fingers along your hip. When he pulls back again, the ridges of his cock catching every nerve ending inside of you, it's with that same slow, steady pace that soon begins to dizzy you and make your fingers ache where they grip the pillow.

As he picks up speed, you move with him. You hitch one leg higher on the bed, and he slides one hand under your thigh to keep you open like that. At this angle, he can go deeper and your own prick can rub more easily against the sheets, and you can't believe you've _missed_ feeling this every time before, because it's brilliant and shattering and everything you've ever wanted but never had.

"Malfoy," he moans, his mouth hot at the back of your neck. And then, quieter, so low you almost miss it, drowned in your own moans – "Christ, why do you do it? Why do you take that stuff? You stupid, bloody–"

"Less talking," you manage, turning to glare over your shoulder. "More fucking." He thrusts in hard at that, and your back curls. "_Fuck_, Potter." And then you don't trust yourself to say anything else, so you mash your face into the pillow and let pure sensation wash over you, promising yourself you will never again do this without the barrier of the potion to protect you.

When he comes, his hands grip your biceps and his thighs press against yours. He stills, trembling, and his forehead is warm against your neck. You feel the hot splash of come inside you and it makes your own hips want to move faster underneath him. You try to push him off you, push back, get leverage, and he seems to understand because he hauls you up and into his lap, his cock still thick in your arse, and reaches a hand around to fist your prick. You spill over his fingers in only a few short moments, sweaty and silent and unable to catch your breath.

You don't move.

He notices.

As if walking on broken glass, he carefully releases his grip on you, but he keeps one hand around your chest and the other on your thigh, and you can feel him mouthing something against your shoulder. For a brief moment of insanity, you contemplate staying. You could just collapse to the bed again, roll over and close your eyes. Maybe he'd cover you with the blankets and smooth your hair off your forehead. Maybe he'd go make some bloody toast or something. A pot of tea. Maybe he'd sprawl out beside you and fall asleep with his legs tangled in yours.

Maybe you've lost your bloody mind.

You jerk away, feeling his prick pull from your body as you stumble to your feet. You are dizzy and aching and Christ, but this was a stupid idea. One of the worst you've ever had.

"Malfoy," he sighs, sitting back on his heels and rubbing his eyes. "_Please_, can't you just–"

"Thanks for the shag, Potter. You're good for a tumble if I'm off my face with that junk, that's true enough."

He is silent, his shoulders hunched. "Yeah," he says after a moment, lifting his chin. "Yeah, you too." His jaw is set and his eyes flash. You pause to stare at him. Your body is completely fucking traitorous, though, so before you do something insane like lean over and kiss him, you grab your clothes off the floor and stride out of the bedroom without even putting them on.

"Malfoy!"

You pause at Potter's front door, and for an excuse to avoid leaving a moment longer, you throw your clothes on. "What?"

Potter is silent, as though he didn't expect a reply. "Nothing," he mutters, and you hear the _whoosh_ of the duvet as he falls to the bed. Distantly, as you open the door, you hear one more sigh and a quiet, "See you next week."

***

On his usual sofa at the Den, trying his best to look relaxed and drugged into oblivion, sits Harry Potter. He always makes sure to arrive first. He always orders pumpkin juice, insists on a shot glass usually reserved for potions, alters the colour himself, and pays double in exchange for the manager's silence. He shifts his legs and tries not to imagine what tonight might bring: Malfoy flushed and groaning, spread out on his back with his legs over Harry's shoulders; Malfoy blissed out and mellow, thrusting into Harry's mouth with a lazy pace and tangling his fingers in Harry's hair; Malfoy hard and determined, pushing Harry down first and climbing over top of him.

He tries not to imagine what tomorrow will bring: another day of Malfoy refusing his owls and pretending he doesn't exist outside this club. He tries to tell himself that this is enough, what Malfoy is willing to give him only on these nights and under these circumstances.

When he is done lying to himself, he will sip the juice and watch Malfoy enter, waiting with his heart thudding in his chest and hoping that maybe, just once, tonight will be different.

Maybe – just once – Malfoy will stay.

 

-fin-


End file.
